Keep Them Safe
by Paulathe Cat
Summary: John has to pick up the pieces after his wife dies and keep his little sons safe. No Spoilers, no really bad language, no slash. Wee!chesters and Daddy Winchester
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **John has to pick up the pieces after his wife dies and keep his little sons safe. No Spoilers, no language, no slash. Wee!chesters

**Disclaimer:** I don't own and pout don't I wish I did? Who wouldn't… yum. Also, I want to acknowledge source materials I used in researching this little bit of drabble:

Supernatural John Winchester's Journal by Alex Irvine

Supernatural Orgins by Peter Johnson with Matthew Dow Smith

Season 1 Supernatural

**A/N:** This plot bunny has been hopping around in my brain… stupid bunny. Someone get me a shotgun! It is meant as a one-shot unless that waskiwy wabbit tries to light up my brain again.

**Keep Them Safe**

The rumble and rocking motion of the Impala lulled the boys to sleep. I finally have enough time to really think about what to do next. How can I even think about taking off? Leaving Lawrence… Lawrence has been our home, but the memories are still too fresh, too real for me. I am tired of seeing the pity in our… my friends' eyes and we can't stay. God, I wish we could.

I look at my sons in the rear-view. Sam sleeps soundly in his car seat. Poor, baby boy. He never will know his mom. Mary, my beautiful wife, Mary! Keep it together, John… I have to keep the tears at bay now. I have two small boys to watch over, to protect…

Leaving Kansas is better. I have to keep moving so the thing that killed her and our friend doesn't get us. We have to be a moving target, harder to hit. I won't let them get us. I look in the rear-view at the two most precious things I have. I can see the glint of street lights flicker on steely green globes. They look at me silently. They haunt my nightmares along with fire and blood and Mary on the ceiling. Different scenarios trouble me and those green eyes haunt each one. I won't let anything happen to you, Dean. It's just us now, Pal. I will keep you both safe… somehow.

"Get some sleep, son." I whisper to him. He doesn't close his eyes. He just watches me. I turn my gaze back to the road but I know the eyes are still boring into the back of my head. He never says anything. He just watches. It's like the four-year-old is studying me, evaluating me. I can't make mistakes here. I need to let him know that I have the answers. I know if I can just find the thing that got my wife… My heart hurts, Mary. I struggle every day with your memory.

The mirror reveals to me that Dean has at least closed his eyes. Dean doesn't speak anymore. He doesn't speak except in response to direct questions and only in one or two words. The only time Sam is quiet now is when he's sleeping. My eyes rest on the sleeping baby. He is so defenseless and needy. He is so fragile and frightened. I rely on Dean more than I should. He'll be five in a couple of months and is not supposed to have a hand in raising his brother, in keeping him alive… Sorry, Dean. We are all we have, pal.

Mary, what am I doing?

***SPN SPN SPN SPN***SPN SPN SPN SPN***SPN SPN SPN SPN***SPN SPN SPN SPN ***

Found some new… allies. I don't know if this is going to work, though. But, if I can just get this done with, kill the creature who took my wife, we will be safe.

That's an illusion, but it's all I have; the only hope to hold. I shouldn't fool myself. I'm a smart man.

I watch Dean sit with Sam and Jo. He is so soft and sweet with them. He touches them with careful fingers and looks so determined and strong. He's four, John! Stop thinking of him as a partner in this. He helps, yes… but he's a kid! Without him, Sam would still be crying at night, still be crying all day. I feel my heart rate and blood pressure increase when the boy can't sleep through the night, when I can't dispel the fits of crying in the day. He is changed, he is fed, I hold him and he cries, I put him down and he cries.

I look at him now. Sam is staring at the faces of the people around him. He is holding onto his brother's finger. He is calm now and I can breathe. I put the glass down and Bill fills it for me. No hunting now- Just researching. I look at the book on the bar top. The others around me have similar activities, but none of them brought children with them into a bar. I'm sorry, Mary. I know it is a bad thing. I shouldn't expose the boys to this life. I can't do this on my own and I want… I need… revenge!

We went out on a hunt. I left the boys here, with Ellen and her niece. I need to learn and I can only do that if I go with the hunters. I know how to do the basics, at least. I am capable. I know how to fight and which is the deadly end of a gun. My Marine training aids me in this at least. This is just another kind of specialist school. I can do this, but I won't bring the boys on this hunt… nor any other. I am a father and they are my sons. I'm not one of these others. When I find it, and kill it, I'll walk away with our boys. This is a temporary situation. This is just temporary.

I look at my son. I look at Dean. How can I do this to them? I gesture for Bill to fill up my glass again. I wish I can forget tonight. I want to forget it all. I want my wife and family back in Lawrence. I want for the Schucks and Skinwalkers to not be real. I want to be able to take back the look on Dean's face tonight when he saw me kill the Skinwalker. It looked like a man. I down the whiskey in one. Bill looks at me with that knowing look of his. He knows what is out there and he maintains a family. I look at the owner of the roadhouse. He is watching me and he watches the hunters around him. They watch as well.

I have seen this before. Men who spent too much time in-country had the same look. The men who spent more than two tours in the soggy wet of the jungles had shifty eyes- their eyes darted at every sound, at every movement. They had an unnatural stillness in their movement. Suspicion and paranoia kept those soldiers alive. The sunken hollows in their cheeks, the dead emotionless gaze they trained on us as we moved through, the way they clenched their weapons and the smell of death… yes, these hunters had all of those things as well. These men were hunters, predators in every sense of the word. The difference between the soldiers in the war and these hunters is that the hunters weren't hunting men. I needed to learn how to kill the unnatural beasts- I need to keep my family safe. I am never going to pass up an opportunity to kill these evil sons-of-bitches. I WILL keep them safe.

I look at Sammy, now asleep, in his car seat, his brother standing over him defensively. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the men at the various levels of the hunt. My once vibrant, always-with-an-easy-smile son has gone. That Dean died with Mary in Sam's nursery. The Dean who holds a wary vigil over his tiny brother is the Changeling who is left. He never smiles anymore. He must feel me looking at him because he shifts his gaze to me. He holds me with those bottomless green pools. I can't answer the questions that I see there, son. I can't make it right for you and your brother. Dean doesn't look away from me. His expression hardens. I hoped to never see that kind of expression on a four-year-old's face—especially not on my four-year-old's face.

Who will keep them safe from me?


	2. Ivy League

Disclaimer: You know the drill…. I own nothing.

Warning: There is some strong language here. No spoilers (except maybe for Pilot, even if it's a little vague.)

A/N: I asked my hubby to Beta for me. He did a great job and it prompted a long discussion about John, his motivations and how the guy has a nearly bipolar attitude about what he's doing. Hubby argues that it's all about revenge. I suggest that John may know deep down it's about revenge, but when the kids are really young, he deludes himself thinking this is temporary, they can be normal again, etc etc. The truth is, John isn't normal—will never be again. He just doesn't know that or won't admit it (even to himself). This is a collaborative effort between me and the smartest guy I know! I married him for his enormous, squishy brain. Enjoy and if you'd like to weigh in on the debate, go ahead and leave us a review.

Ivy League

A one room apartment in the south-side slums of even as decent a place as Blue Earth isn't anything anyone wants to see when they open their eyes after a long night of getting the crap kicked out of them. My life, however, isn't about what I want. It hasn't been for a long time.

When the flashes of light fade from my vision, I look around the dingy, darkened room my boys and I have been laughingly calling "home" for the past three months. Two twin beds dominate the room. A tiny folding table sits adjacent to the kitchenette and the small bathroom that shares a wall with it. I'm not exactly a clean freak, but the old pizza boxes, empty coke cans and dirty laundry are starting to bug even me. I sit up, and wipe the sleep out of my eyes, causing pain to shoot through my face. Like I said, it was a rough night. You should see the other guys.

Light leaks through the ancient blinds of the room's one window, indicating the day is late. At least Dean had gotten him and Sam to school, allowing me to sleep. I step out of bed, bringing my foot down directly on Dean's G.I. Joe. How does something so small hurt so much? Cursing, I stumble into the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

Through a throbbing headache, my reflection pulls me up short when my eyes adjust to the light. I barely recognize myself anymore. The right side of my face has swelled significantly in the last few hours. My lower lip was smashed open against my teeth last night and a lucky shot had connected solidly with my forehead, raising a lump the size of a golf ball. By tomorrow the blood will drain and settle beneath my eyes, making me look even worse.

These, though, are just surface injuries. What lies beneath them, however, is what startled me. My hair, now streaked with grey, lays limp and blood encrusted against my head. There are wrinkles and recent scars I had never noticed until this moment. There's a softness and fatigue in my eyes that bothers me the most and for a moment, there is a great swell of longing for Mary that rises in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me.

Jesus Christ, John! What are you doing here? She wouldn't have wanted this for you; she wouldn't have wanted this for them either, for that matter. I think to myself, just for a moment, that maybe it's not too late. That when the boys come home, I could have the Impala packed, load them up, and just go home—just take them back to Lawrence. These thoughts are pushed aside by some part of me, the Marine… the stubborn bastard that lurks there behind those superficial injuries. That part, maybe, reminds me why I'm here. I picture him, standing in the dark, a silhouette framed by the fire engulfing my wife. I think about what kind of monster I may be up against. And some part of me notices my own eyes harden as the Marine takes over again.

The job's not done yet. Not just my job. It's their job too. They didn't ask for it, but they got it anyway. Life doesn't give a shit what you want. That bastard has a world of hurt coming to him, and I'm going to be there when he gets it.

The first rings of the phone by my bed snaps me out of my thoughts as the tones echo in my skull, making the room spin. I move quickly to answer it, if only to stop the infernal noise that seems hell bent on ripping my head in two. I snatch the receiver up and take a few moments to gather my thoughts.

"What?" I ask when my ability to form coherent words returns.

"Mr. Winchester?" the woman on the other end of the line enquired.

"Yes?"

"This is Principal Harper at Victoria Elementary School" she replies, causing my stomach to drop. Over the last few months of this unusually long stay, I'd met with Dr. Harper a few times, and though she seems nice enough, every time I get a call from the school, I tense up.

"What did he do this time?" I ask.

"You misunderstand, Mr. Winchester…" she replies with poorly hidden laughter in her voice. I can hear a smile on her face as she speaks through the phone. _Sammy, then_. "I'm calling because I have Sam's teacher here in my office and we need to talk to you about some observations we have made. Can you come to meet with us? Say, Tuesday next week?"

I rest my head in my hands, careful to avoid any tender spots. I suddenly long to be away from this place- Back on the road and away from these mundane requirements of my life, but my work here isn't done yet. Soon… but, not yet. "Yes. That can be arranged, I guess."

"I'm so glad, Mr. Winchester. We just want to talk to you about some opportunities we think we can make available to your son. He is so bright, we just… well… we'll speak more on Tuesday, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks for calling." I hang up the phone.

I know Dean is smart. I know he works the system and gets what he needs and wants, though I don't always know _how_ he manages. I'm not sure I want to know. But, Sam? He's more academic. He likes math and science and he holds those books before him like a shield to the world. These are all fine things, I suppose, but there's plenty to learn he won't find in a textbook.

I know moving him around so much has made him fall behind in his schooling. He always huffs and complains when we pack up to leave yet another school. Them's the breaks, kid. I have plenty to teach him and life doesn't give a damn what he wants.

I have the weekend to heal. By Tuesday morning, I'm in good enough shape that I can tell the principal that I got rear-ended and hit my head on the steering wheel and have it be at least plausible. I drop the boys off at school but instead of pulling away, I park. They're looking at me confused and I see Sam's head dip slightly. He has a habit of hunching his shoulders and hanging his head low in the collar of his jacket. I haven't said anything to either of them about this meeting. They think I'm pulling them. They walk through the front doors of the main building with me. Dean keeps watching me. He is trying to figure it out. I think Sam already knows. He didn't say anything either, apparently.

I give Dean a look that he takes to mean, "_All clear, go ahead_".

"Come on, Sammy, I'll walk you to class."

Sam makes eye contact and I nod to him as I walk to the secretary. "I'm John Winchester. I have an appointment."

The woman looks up at me. "Oh. Hello, again, Mr. Winchester." Then, a look of confusion. "Dean hasn't been to see the principal in weeks."

"I'm here about Sam, my youngest son." I smile at her as realization dawns on her.

"Oh, right! Sam!" She stands and walks to the principal's door. I can hear a muttered, muffled exchange before the woman returns. She is still wearing the broad grin. I return a tentative one. "Dr. Harper will see you now."

I have been in this office several times in the last few months and it hasn't changed. Well, except that the teacher sitting in the other chair is different.

Introductions are made and I look at the women expectantly. The principal speaks to me of the program that the district offers to exceptionally bright youngsters and how the opportunity for Sam would help prepare him for future scholastic endeavors. I feel my heart sink. I know what she's saying should make me proud, and it does. I know Sam is clever and curious. I know this is exactly the kind of thing he would eat up. But, this woman is talking long term planning. She says the program offers second through fifth grades intensive educational program. She tells me about past students going to an academy for secondary and then a prep school before Ivy League University.

Something in my expression must concern her and she reads it incorrectly. I am not so much worried about the cost and whether Sam can get scholarships as I am that we aren't likely to be here when Sam starts second grade. I look at her and smile. She seems to relax.

"I appreciate you thinking of Sam for this opportunity." I hesitate. I still can't help but think about the kid skating through school and going to fulfill his mother's dream for him. I look down at my hands. "I want the best possible education for Sam… _and_ for Dean… I just… my… work... has us moving around a lot and…"

The looks on the faces of these women make me feel worse. I can see their hopes and dreams for my son as clearly as if he was a child of a normal family instead of a family of hunters. They look like educators for a kid whose family is active in PTA and bake sales instead of a family that runs physical training drills and whose kids are learning to recognize the signs of demonic possession. The opportunity offered to Sam is for families who play board games and attend block parties, not for a kid from a family who routinely field strips rifles and attends "salt and burns".

"Mr. Winchester… maybe we can have your permission to assess him and if he qualifies… and you are here for the beginning of the next school year, we can see how things work out then? Would that be acceptable?" She is trying to be reasonable. I find myself agreeing. I sign my name on the document allowing them to test Sam. It won't hurt and if we can…

Leaving the office, the urge to run returns. I should pull them. We should move on. Leave before the tests come back and we find out how smart Sam really is… It's so much harder to continue hunting if I know for sure how completely I am screwing up their lives. By the time I reach the Impala I find myself realizing that I'm not doing myself or Sam any favors by indulging in this fantasy.

The tests are meaningless, trivial. There are no sleepovers. No pizza parties or baseball games or barbeques. There is the next town, the next hunt, the next fight. It's not what I wanted. I had what I wanted, and he took it from me. It's not what I _wanted_, it's what _is_.

_Its less than they deserve_, the voice in the back of my head, (my wife's, I think) tells me.

_That's life_, the hunter responds, _and life doesn't give a fuck._


	3. Target Practice

**Disclaimer**: I don't own and make no money, fame off anything I do… sad. _Supernatural_ is property of CW and Kripke Enterprises. This drabble is pre-series Wee!chesters with Daddy Winchester. There are no spoilers (except maybe season 1 and Pilot), no slash or language.

**A/N**: I went shooting with friends recently and I thought about this little bit of drabble. I can't resist some angsty Papa Winchester! I also have an eight year old who is on Summer Break and we were walking the other day. I heard the question "why" for two hours STRAIGHT! Oh, John… how did Sammy manage to survive to his twenties? Forget the frickin supernatural monsters out to get them. How did he not pull that beautiful car over to the side of the road and leave the kid at a rest stop?

**Target Practice**

The line of targets on the fence glistens in the mid-morning sun. Glass bottles, empty beverage cans and odd objects found are lined up and only one of my two sons is in any way interested. Sam is sitting in the passenger seat of the ebony car reading a book that is, no doubt, intended for a child older than he. All morning, since we left the motel in Arkansas, before the sun was even a pale whisper in the sky, he plied me with questions. Every single time we have to leave, he asks the same question—"why?" It was really enough to set my back teeth on edge. That's when we pulled off the highway to do a little bit of firearm training. I surreptitiously glance at him from time to time. He wants to know if he can join a soccer team over the weekends. He wants to know why we're moving again. He wants to know how long we might stay in Arizona. He wants to know when we will stay still, settle down. All these things he wants to know, and he still doesn't want to know how to shoot. Dean does a good job of deflecting the questions when they start to get too much. God love him. I scrub my face encountering scruffy stubble. I really need a shave.

"Dean, widen your stance, boy. It will give you better balance when you feel the kick. You're jerking the trigger; squeeze it next time."

Dean's a natural. I am amazed at the kid's marksmanship. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, though. He is really amazing with a bow and crossbow. I can wish Sam was as interested in this aspect of our lives as his brother is. But, he's still young. By mutual unspoken consent, Dean and I keep him a kid a little longer. Keep him in the dark when it comes to what my job is and why we keep going. He doesn't need to know why we're training in firearms. He doesn't need to know why he has to run in the early morning light with his brother and me every day. He just needs to get up and do it. He doesn't need to know why I'm teaching Dean bow, rifles, shotguns and handguns. He just needs to know that these are skills I want him to learn. I want Sam to learn, too. But, Sam is incredibly stubborn and he keeps asking "why".

Dean set his left foot slightly wider in his stance. I nod minutely. I see him glance at the movement from the corner of his eye. A ghost of a cocky grin alights his features briefly. His green eyes focus ahead of him once more. I watch the narrowing of his eyes as he targets, the adjustment of the stock into his body, the twitching of his finger that resulted in the jerking and loss of accuracy. My lips thin but then I notice the adjustment he makes to follow my instruction and I smile. He really is a natural. I watch as he slowly squeezes and the glass shatters. A smile of triumph crosses his features.

"Good, boy. Keep practicing."

I walk to the trunk of the Impala behind the firing line, keeping Dean in my field of vision. I continue to watch him as he aims down the barrel of his rifle to the green glass on the fence. Another shot and glass shatters. Sam doesn't even look up.

I never know how to talk to Sam anymore. Dean says the questions aren't meant to defy me, just to know the answer. But then, this is Sam. Dean is his brother's biggest advocate. Dean placates. He tries to buy peace between his brother and me. I feel myself tense, ready to fight with Sam every time I give an order. I never worry that Dean will follow the orders, but I know what is coming from Sammy. Every question begins the same…

"Why are we stopping here?" He asks me as I lean against the car.

I shake my head. Ah, Sam- always "why". I shrug my shoulders. He wants to know the reasons for every move I make. He wants the rationalization and I can't tell him. I can't tell him "why". I can't tell him that I want revenge so badly that I can't sleep at night; that the only thing there is for me is to find the thing that did this to us and destroy it. I can't tell him the Hell each and every day is for me without Mary. How can I tell my eight year old son that the reason we can't stay still is because I have to follow the leads where they take me. I have to follow each and every hunt no matter where they are because a Hunter can't pass up a hunt? How can I tell him that the things that go "bump" in the night, the monsters in his closet and the boogey-man under his bed can get him? I still want him to be "normal" one day. I know he wants it too. He and Dean don't know I hear them talking at night. They don't know, and I'm not saying. I know it too late for me, may be too late for Dean—not that _he_ seems to mind. Another glass shatters after gunshot.

"Dean, tuck the stock into your shoulder more." I watch as the boy nods diffidently. The clicks of shells sliding home as the boy reloads then tucks the stock in as instructed. I eye him critically as he approaches the firing line again. He embraces all the training and follows orders without questions. But, Sammy… I inhale deeply.

I take a bottle out of the cooler and sit down on the closed lid leaning against the rear-quarter panel of the car. I shoot a look at the boy sitting in the Impala, legs out the open door, book perched on his lap and his brow furrowed in concentration. I take a moment to wonder if it was a textbook he stole from the school when we left Arkansas or if it was from the "Approved Winchester Reading List". Boy'll read anything he gets his hands on and that's a fact.

I look again at my oldest. He's out of targets. He's sighting through the scope adjusted to the top of the rifle down the slope and into the wooded perimeter. I shake my head and feel the corner of my mouth rise up. He dearly loves his firearms… as much as his brother loves books. I take a long pull from the bottle in my hand. The hoppy crisp beverage has a slightly resinous flavor I don't find particularly tasty, but it was a cheap off-brand and beggars can't be choosers.

"Okay, boy. Are you out?"

"Yes, sir." Dean responds immediately, barrel in the air and I watch him finger the safety. I nod.

"Go check your targets."

Dean slides the rifle onto the wooden bench between our fire-line and the Impala and carefully walks through glass and debris out to the targets. He pulls heavy work gloves out of his pocket and lifts up bottles that are still useable and items that he deems interesting to shoot. He finds an old CD changer and a "Dukes of Hazzard" lunchbox. I finish off the liquid in the bottle in my hand and stand to walk out to Dean. He begins lining up new targets and I place my empty on the line between CD changer and lunchbox.

We begin to walk back to the firing line and I tell him to change to the Colt M1911. He grins broadly and pulls out the handgun and ammo. He looks at me and recognizes that I am leveling my best "you-think-this-is-a-game" look. His expression turns serious again. He walks to the bench and loads the clip, then goes to the firing line to load the clip into the gun. I move behind and to the left of him. He turns the gun to the target. Maybe this _is_ all a game to Dean. He takes delight in the training we are able to take time to indulge in. As I said, boy loves his firearms.

But, this ain't a game. This is a life or death struggle. I find myself reminding my heart that these boys may end up orphans before we're done. What I can teach them now may end up saving their lives one day. That's all I can hold on to at night while I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, willing my mind to stray from the familiar nightmares. Sammy is the one I worry for the most. He won't accept training without the dreaded "why" crossing his lips. He won't accept that I can keep him safe so long as he just follows the orders I give him. In the heat of what may come, the only thing that may save his life is that he follows orders. Dean gets it. He follows orders, no questions, no hesitations. He tries to tell Sam that he needs to just do what I say. I allow Dean to struggle with Sam over the "why" of my orders. Chain of command, kid. I tell Dean, he tells Sam and Sam asks "why". I shake my head again; my gaze falls behind me to see the hazel intensity directed at my back. He's watching. I know he hears the instructions. I know he absorbs information like a sponge. I know how incredibly smart he is. I just wonder if he can learn enough to protect himself before I meet a bloody end. The thought sends chills through me. I need him to learn, but my heart wants him to be a kid a little while longer. I want to tell him what's out there, but I don't want him to _know_. He needs to learn the family business, but I want an apple-pie existence for him- not one revolving around digging up graves, salt-and-burns. If I can just get him to stop asking.


	4. The Man in the Mirror

**Summary**: John comes home late at night after a hunt and finds he doesn't recognize the man in the mirror.

**Disclaimer:** Preseries—Inspired by something John says to Dean in the second season episode, "In My Time of Dying" (2.1). Some language, though not much, no slash or GWN. Just angsty John and Dean doing what Dean does. BTW: I don't own or make money from SPN or the characters, themes,etc.

**The Man in the Mirror**

Sometimes, I have to look at myself in the mirror… I mean, really look. I see past the scratchy three-day-old facial hair badly in need of shaving, past the silver-white or pink lines that scar my face—mementos of battles fought and won against human and non-human foes… I look deep into the green eyes of the man staring back at me from the glass.

When did I become this man? When I imagine how I look, this is not who I see and yet who can argue with the evidence at hand? The man I see reminds me of revenant I hunted tonight. The spirit sought revenge from beyond the grave and it looked at me with sunken eyes, deep bruise-colored skin below hollows holding fathomless windows to the soul behind them. I see that same lost soul-emptiness as I look at the man there in the glass in front of me.

I think I must have died that cool, November night so long ago. I died that night with Mary.

Mary.

What I see in the glass is what is left of John Winchester, not a whole and flesh-and-blood human. A revenant of the man I was before.

I lean forward heavily onto the palms of my hands, gripping the almost-white porcelain of the single shallow sink, my face nearly pressed against the glass. I focus on all the pores, each new grey whisker and hair, the bruising, the scars—they all advertise how this life takes a toll on my body. I can't even deny that the reflection is me. In fact, the reflection is so familiar that I could be looking backward in time. I'm not even 40 and the reflection reminds me of my dad in his 50s only harder, more alone and lost and hell-bent on vengeance. I never saw that on Dad. I shake my head and lean back. The difference, I guess, is the miles. Yeah, Dad was in Korea so we've both seen and done things in war. We both know what it means to kill and see others die—sometimes because of us. When Dad came home, though, he didn't lose the woman he loved, that he would do anything for, the one he promised to love and protect until their days were long in the sunset of their lives be killed by something inhuman in a supernatural blaze on the ceiling of a child's nursery. I have to choke back the pain and the threat of a sob. I push it down; hide it in the box with all the rest of my feelings.

"Dad?"

The one word is a soft whisper, but I would be able to hear it in the raging storm of a tornado. I close my eyes and take a breath.

"Go back to bed, Dean." I whisper to my son, equally softly, but I don't turn from my reflection, my eyes are still closed.

I could almost hear the boy nod briefly. He's not even a teenager yet and Dean is a more accurate reflection of who I have become than the damn reflecting glass. The kid had seen awful terrible things—ghosts, shtriga, werewolves, skinwalkers… he's even seen me blow away some of the things that have gone "bump" in the night. I don't need to look to know he's still standing there. I can feel him assessing the situation he sees here in the small tiled room.

"It's late, son." I admonish. I still don't turn to look at him. I know that is what he's waiting for me to do.

I can't bear to look I don't want to see what I have turned him into. I don't want to see the haunted man reflected in the mirror brought to flesh in the child waiting for my attention—insisting on my attention—there in the doorway.

My eyes close once more. I push away that softness a father should feel for his son. I can't use it. It has no place here. I'm a hunter now and Dean… well, he's collateral damage. Together, though, we can try to contain that damage to just he and I. He _has_ to recognize the damage I've done to him, right? He doesn't blame me, though. He doesn't judge me for it. He stands as a firewall between what he knows I am and his younger brother. I shake my head and huff out a soft and short-lived chuckle. God, Dean…. Why don't you hate me as much as I hate myself?

I can't deny him any longer. I turn my body away from the sink and the bathroom mirror to face my true reflection. Dean leans against the doorframe; his dark blonde hair is short but still manages to stick up in different directions. He wraps his long arms around himself folded in front of him like armor… or is it that he is holding something inside of him? He pushes the feelings down and hides them away, just like dear ol' Dad. God… my internal monologue sounds snide even to me.

The question on Dean's eyes—Mary's eyes—is clear. I have to shake my head. I can't believe he wants to know if _I'm_ okay. I can feel my armor weaken. I feel my hardened bitter eyes soften as I look into his not well-guarded face. He's only ever this open with me when he's tired or sick—or with Sam.

"I'm fine, son. Please, just go back to bed. We have a long drive in the morning. I need you to help with Sam."

He's nodding. He knows his place in the chain of command. He knows his standing order. He doesn't need me to remind him to care for Sammy. _I_ do, though. I need to see the confirmation from him. If hr is a true reflection of me… if he still cares about Sam, if he still knows to protect his brother and keep himself safe, then maybe I can hold that part of me in safe keeping inside of him. Then, maybe that part of me can live again. Maybe I can put my sons first again. But, they aren't first. Vengeance is. They haven't been first for a long time. Maybe seeing that reflection of me in my son, I can believe that the revenant can be held at bay and the father I am deep inside is still alive… that maybe John Winchester still exists somewhere in the reflection in the glass—if there is John Winchester somewhere in Dean, maybe he's here inside me, inside my cold, dead heart waiting to be brought back to life.

Dean turns away from the door, toward the room, toward the bed. He pauses for a moment, and then turns back to me.

"It's gonna be okay, Dad." He tells me solemnly. "You need to get some sleep, too."

I nod. I feel the burn behind my eyelids. I blink rapidly, turning away from him and swallow with difficulty. How does he do that? How does he bring out the human when all I want or need is the hunter? How does he manage to stay human when I keep putting this shit onto his young shoulders? How is he able to look out for all of us?

I look fondly at my son as he climbs on top of the covers next to his brother who is buried deep under blankets and sheets. I watch Dean adjust himself against the headboard leaving all but one pillow to his brother. He checks Sam, making sure the younger is breathing okay and not being smothered by the pile of coverings Sammy has managed to pull on top of himself. Dean checks Sam's temperature by the simple expedient of brushing hair from the sleeping boy's forehead. Then, I watch as my oldest child crosses his arms over his chest, cross one foot over the other and close his eyes. I had to shake my head in wonder.

He's a reflection of who I am, but he's also a reflection of who I was. He _is_ Mary. Every touch of his long, slender fingers as he deliberately moves through the simple, every day mechanics is Mary. Each glance my way reminds me of the looks she gave to me, calling me out on some bullshit excuse I tried to pass by her. She used to look at me with those intense blue eyes: assessing, scrutinizing, analyzing.

Dean does that. Somehow, he makes connections of disparate pieces of information or observations. He analyzes situations, reads body language and adjusts strategies based on those observations. I had a staff sergeant like that. I can do it. So could Mary. But with Dean, he can do it with such facility and with such charm that he reminds me daily of his mom. They have a charisma I don't possess. Staff sergeant didn't either. We were never "people" people, staff sergeant and I. I make more enemies than friends. The friends I make are closer to temporary allies than anything else. I used to make friends. I was uncomfortable doing it, but I never actively antagonized people. That was the John Winchester from before—the one who died with his wife. Dean is able to elicit loyalty and friendship, even comfort when he puts forth the effort. The boy could charm the birds from the trees… though, he will more likely to charm the pants from a nun… I feel myself smile slightly.

No. I shut all those feelings down again. I put them back in that cold, hard box and lock it up.

I circle to the second bed in the room. I look at Sam sleeping, his face barely visible to me, the soft whuffling breaths push a corner of the sheet with each exhalation. I sit on the edge of the bed and watch him sleep. That softness in my heart keeps creeping out. It relentlessly refuses to stay locked away around my boys.

My hand moves of its own volition as I lean forward to sweep the stray brownish-blonde wisps of hair off Sam's sleeping face and peer down at the last great creation Mary and I made together. He has Mary's hair and my stubborn will. He's smart like his mother. He speaks his mind like she did, but he's often quiet like me—introspective. He leads with his heart, wears it out there for Dean and I to see, but he can explode in fury… passionate and wild. That is who I was as well, a long time ago. That bit of me was tamed and harnessed by the Corps.

I need to reign in this emotional outpouring and lock them away. The hunter needs to stay at the fore. I have work to do and I can't afford the luxury of the love I have indulged in with my boys. I need to…

I need to…

I look up as I sit back on my bed's edge. Dean is looking directly into my eyes. He doesn't say a word but he speaks volumes with the words he doesn't say. I can see love and wonder as he gazes at me. He has a pride that I'm his dad that I can't fathom.

Then, I remember he is a mirror. He reflects the things I have undoubtedly expressed with regards to Dean. The glass shatters, spilling inside me. I want him to feel that about me. I want to be the man Dean reflects at me. I want to earn it and I want it to be true.

I feel the hot tears fill my eyes. I feel my mouth curve upwards as I contemplate my first-born son. My heart hurts with the effort to keep my true self away from the boys.

As the first fat drop hits my hand lying slack, hanging from a loose wrist resting on my knee, I feel those barriers crash down. I gasp urgently, pulling as much air as I can into my lungs as if I had been submerged in deep, dark waters and only now am I breaking the surface. My hands fly to cover my face as it bows low beneath my shoulders. I sob quietly, struggling to keep them from wracking my abused body too much.

Then, I feel the dip next to me. A warm weight leans against my side; a long slender arm drapes my shoulders and pulls me toward him. I hear soft murmurs and can't process the meaning or form of the words and phrases whispering to me. Dean's tone is almost amused but is also concerned and supportive. It's like he understands how fruitless trying to deny my humanity is and finds it entertaining.

What my son is cooing in my ear is difficult to determine—but, the intent becomes clear as he pushes me gently onto my bed. He pulls off my boots as I struggle to pull myself together, to slow my breath and staunch the free-flowing tears.

I feel the blanket pulled over my body up to my chin. I slowly feel myself calm and my mind becomes unfocused as I feel Dean's fingers card through my hair briefly.

"Good night, Dad." He whispers to me. "See you in the morning."

I hear him resume his place next to Sam. I can hear the rustle of fabric, the scuff of denim over poly-cotton sheets, the whisper of skin folding over skin, the soft creak of mattress springs and the contented sigh of Dean's breath.

"Good night, Dean." I say to my son, my voice peculiarly pitched and nasal as I sniff.

Dean is the mirror of the man I want to be, but I need to watch for the revenant that sleeps inside of me. I have to keep the balance between human and hunter else I become what I hunt. I hope my boys can help me maintain that balance. I feel my breaths become slower and my mind fog even more. I have long drive in the morning. This is a reflection for another time. Now, is the time for sleep.


	5. Phone Calls from Home

**Disclaimer**: There are seasons one through three spoilers and profane language in this fic. As always, I own nothing.

**A/N**: Sorry about how long this chapter is… over 7000 words… John fascinates me. I think about how hard it is to be an average citizen in our world with a kid of my own. I have got to say that I don't know how any single parent manages let alone a single dad on a vendetta against the supernatural. I had thought about how close John is to only a few hunters in his community and how much Sam and Dean had relied on those few, particularly Pastor Jim and Bobby. John is an obsessed and myopic hunter with little regard for those around him. I know he loves his kids, but sometimes he needs reminding. This is unbeta'd but I hope I caught all the tense errors, spelling and grammar no-no's. Feel free to let me know if you see something I missed.

**Phone Calls from Home**

I'll never get used to defeat. Yes, I managed to kill the monster, but the people I intended to save are still dead… so, defeat.

I stare at the motel room wall. All the leads were drew me to this conclusion. My eyes follow the lines backward. Could I have discovered this sooner? Could I have done anything different to determine another outcome? I keep focusing on the clues. I begin taking articles, pictures and notes down from the wall.

This whole thing started with the monster that took away my family. The bastard is as slippery as an eel and as nebulous as smoke. What is constant is its M.O. That never changes, but despite my best effort to determine a pattern by which to predict its next target, it continues to elude me. I am able to track it based on where it has been, but it has an agenda that involves wheels within wheels. I'm missing something… I know it.

I couldn't predict it killing the whole family. It usually takes one in a fire. That is the way it has always been. Why did it take the whole family?

The ringing of the phone on the motel nightstand is jarring. It drags me away from my musing. I lift the receiver to my ear.

"Dad?"

Sam's voice whispers through the line. I suck in a breath.

"Sam. What's wrong?"

I hear the huff from the boy. I can see the expression on his face through the miles and miles between us.

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm working, Sam. Where's your brother?"

I can hear Sam fumbling with the phone. It sounds like he is holding the receiver against him to mute the sound.

"He's sleeping."

I breathe out, relieved. There isn't a crisis, just my youngest calling covertly. I smile but my voice is stern.

"Sam." I put as much warning into the word as I can.

"It's just…" I can hear him moving again. "Pastor Jim says school starts soon and I…"

I wait. I scrape the palm of my free hand down my face trying to remove the fatigue and weariness I feel. I am so close to finding this thing that I hunt. I don't have time to be distracted.

"Sam, I thought this is what you wanted."

"It is!" Sam hurries to assure me. I believe him.

"Then, why are you calling me while everyone is sleeping?"

I can hear the shuffle again. He must be hiding. His voice sounds away from the phone as he hedges, then comes back to focus on our conversation.

"I wanna play soccer, but Pastor Jim says you hafta say it's okay first."

I sigh. I'm trying to focus on this hunt. I'm trying to finish this and these types of conversations are the reasons I left the boys with the preacher man in the first place.

"Sam, I'm working. If you want to play soccer, I'm okay if Pastor Jim says okay." I think about it a moment. "Tell your brother he needs to watch out for you at practice and after school."

Sam huffs again. I can almost hear his eyes roll at me.

"Don't make that face, Sam."

I can hear him still through the phone.

"Yes, sir." He responds. His voice is terse. I smile at the effect.

"I need to go, son. And you need to get back to bed before you brother sees you're gone and flips out."

The laughter from my son at the idea of Dean flipping out makes me want to head back to Blue Earth, to take a moment to live in a normal world with a normal family. I sort of like Minnesota; it would be a good place to live that life.

"Good Night, Sam." I tell him in those few words all the feelings and instructions he needs to know.

"'Night, Dad." There is a click. I place the receiver back on the cradle.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

The morning light brightens to afternoon and dulls to late day. I drag my ass out of bed and look at my "monster" wall as Dean once called it. I shake my head to dispel the image of the boy.

I'm still trying to find the puzzle piece I have been missing. I know what the creature is doing, I just can't fathom why.

Pastor Jim told me he thinks the creature is a demon. It's a hard sell.

Shapeshifter, striga, succubus—those I can believe exist. I have seen them and defeated them. Ghouls and ghosts—yep. I know them, too. I have never seen a demon. How could a demon exist?

Shapeshifters and those supernatural creatures… they're just creatures. Yes, they are unlike the natural creatures, harder to kill than natural creatures, but they are born and they die, usually with my silver or iron weapon through them. Ghouls and Ghosts—they used to be humans and they died leaving a part of them behind to torment the living. Demons? That implies something more "out there". I can believe the supernatural creatures exist because they're here but, the sorting of souls for Heaven or Hell is beyond my understanding. I refuse to acknowledge demons.

I finish removing paper from the wall and stash them in my journal. I shower and change before putting clothes, weaponry and personal belongings in the duffel. I take my stuff out to the car and return with "cleaning supplies". Alcohol helps strip the oils left by fingerprints off the surfaces and while I do leave some hair, fibers and often blood behind, I try to leave as little of that as possible.

I give the room a last look when the phone rings. I think about ignoring it. Sighing, I lift the receiver to my ear. As always, I wait for the caller to initiate the conversation.

I hear scuffling and grunts as well as a high-pitched squeal.

"Christo!"

That was Dean's voice!

"Dean?"

"Hey, Dad. Did you say Sam could go for soccer and I had to go with him?"

I let out my breath as I get my heart rate under control. I can hear scuffling again and this time I identify the high-pitched squeals as the protestations of my youngest and the grunting as my oldest fending off his brother as they jostle for control over the phone.

"Dean!" I bark into the phone. I must have barked loud enough for both of them to hear because the jostling and background noises cease.

"Yes, sir?" He sounds suitably contrite.

"I. Am. Working. Where's Pastor Jim?"

There is silence on the other end. I hear a muffled scraping of fabric on the receiver.

"Sorry, sir. He's in a meeting behind closed doors."

"Where's your brother?" I ask next.

"He's here, sir."

I can hear Sam shouting at Dean. I can't contain the sigh.

"Dean, you know better than to call me while I'm working. I need to concentrate on this and I can't have you two calling me all the time…"

"Yes, sir." He sounds petulant.

"I need you to look after Sam and listen to Pastor Jim. Dean, if I can't count on you…"

"No, sir! I mean… yes, sir. You _can_ count on me. I _am_ looking after Sam. But, he said you told him it was okay and we hadn't talked to you in a couple of days. I told him 'no' because I know he's lying."

"I'm _not_ lying, Dean!" I hear Sam protest.

"Dean, I spoke to Sam last night, or early this morning. You can walk with him, stay with him and keep an eye on him when he does this soccer thing. Just…" I sigh again. I close my eyes and clench my teeth in frustration. "Can I count on you or not?"

This call is making me tired. I can feel the tension and it's giving me a headache.

"Yes, sir. You can." Dean sounds offended.

"Good. Now, let me speak to Sam."

I hear shuffling and the back and forth arguing between brothers.

"I told you that I wasn't lying! Hey, Dad."

"Sam, next time you hear your brother tell you 'no', you can consider it as a 'no' from me. If I find out you are doing an end-run around him once more, I will have you doing doubles sprints and push-ups when I get there. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir." Sam gasps.

"I am letting you continue the soccer thing because I need Dean to learn something, too. But, you will NOT be calling me like this again while I am working."

"No sir." The whispered response comes.

"Follow Dean's instructions, listen to Pastor Jim, head down, be good. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

I sigh. "Good. Go do homework and then… you and Dean need quiet time. No arguments."

"Yes, sir."

I hang up the phone and scrub my face, shaking my head in disbelief.

Okay, John… vacation over. Time to go back to work. I leave the motel after wiping the phone and door.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

I return to yet another run-down, musty-smelling, armpit of a motel room, this time in the middle of the California desert. God, I'm just glad it's not summer. It's too fuckin' hot! Do they even have seasons in this hellspawned state? It's almost November and the temperature is 110 degrees Fahrenheit! It wouldn't be so bad but the air conditioning is crap and this motel room smells like an ashtray.

There is red-iron basalt rock formations nearby that housed a coven of witches- mostly from much further south—who were trying to break their leader out of a minimum security prison in town.

Sometimes witches were worst than the supernatural creatures I face. They're human and what they do to other humans is beyond my ability to stomach. It is difficult, though, to compartmentalize those feelings of right versus wrong when facing humans doing crazy inhuman shit.

I wipe the blood and sweat from my face and neck. Christ, I'm tired. The leads keep stringing me along and I chase them one after another, driving long hours to find the truth and keep coming up with blood, sweat and tears. I lean heavily on the sink. Even in this bathroom, the stench of cigarette smoke has infused the very paint on the walls. It was near impossible getting any sleep last night between the stagnant reek and the oppressive heat; even late into the night it didn't go below 90 degrees.

"What the Hell are you doing, John?" I ask my reflection. I don't know the answer.

The phone ringing in the room rips me out of my existential crisis. I lift the receiver to my ear and wait.

"John?"

"Hey, Jim." I breathe into the mouthpiece. Even to me, my voice sounds fatigued and defeated. "Turned out to be witches after all."

"John, you need rest and the boys want to see you. Come back. Sam's got a soccer tournament coming up and Dean's … well, I got Dean to agree to sing in the Children's choir at this weekend's concert."

I am sorely tempted to hop in the car right now and begin driving non-stop, tired or not.

"Dean can sing?" I chuckle.

"It's really the damnedest thing, John. He had to sit there with me for a couple of weeks during the rehearsals and I guess hearing the songs over and over again kinda made them stick. He's got the voice of an angel… wish his disposition and behavior was as angelic." Jim chuckles at that. He had told me the kinds of pranking the kid had been up to. Jim continued in my ear. "Can't imagine it will last beyond puberty. It happens to all our sopranos, sadly."

I find myself shocked into silence. Huh. Dean can sing.

"I'll head back in the morning, Jim. I…"

The silence between us is growing, but neither of us breaks it for several pregnant moments.

"You need rest, too, John. Come back."

I nod and though Jim can't see it, he understands.

"See you in a few days, John. I'm gonna wait to tell the boys. Maybe it can be a surprise?"

He's telling me not to say anything to them that'll get their hopes up in case I decide to get sidetracked.

November is creeping up on us. I want to be somewhere safe before the end of October, anyway. I want to have them near to hand when it comes.

"Yeah, okay. See you in a few days."

It's the only response I can give.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

It took another two weeks.

I stumbled across a werewolf on the way to Blue Earth and had to take care of it. I returned to a motel room several hours out of Minnesota when I finished up the hunt. I peered at my reflection again and was shocked to realize I had lost at least ten pounds since September. It had been… nearly eight weeks since I had last seen my boys. I look at the newspaper dateline. October 30.

I gasp and clutch my chest. I feel the sting and swell of hot salty tears form in my eyes. I drop to my knees. I feel the stifling pressure building inside me. I can't slow my breathing, it comes in gasps. I can't control the panic enough to gain a true lungful of air. My heart is pounding, rushing blood deafens me. It can't be here already. It was weeks away and I was headed to get the boys because I knew it was coming.

It's less than a week until the anniversary of the night my wife was consumed in flames.

I spring to my feet and rush out the door. There's a bottle in the car and I sit with the door open as I gulp its contents. It burns my throat and I just want the numbing to begin. It's not enough.

I stumble through the parking lot to the windowless building from which I hear a thumping twang of country line-dancing music. I enter the dark red door to be blasted by the blaring sound from the DJ and raucous voices of a large crowd in the small space. There are at least a dozen people standing around a pit with a mechanical bull, cheering on the current rider. There are several dozens of men and women dancing on the wide floor to the music of a popular modern country artist. I know I've heard the song in nearly every state I've rolled through but I don't really care who's singing. There are quite a few patrons at the bar. There are a few women leaning forward into the personal space of the men; the men don't seem to mind all that much. I'm really not interested in company tonight unless the barman says is the strongest they have.

That's what I order and tell him to leave the bottle. I am three quarters the way through the first bottle when I nearly rip the head off a pretty young red-head. I get severe looks from the others who are near me, but no one approaches me again.

It's last call and the barman tells me I have to go.

I grab the neck of the third bottle of the evening and make my way back. I don't even notice or care that the Impala's door had been left open all night and remained so as I walk into the empty motel room. I'm still not numb enough to deal with the pain of grief and loneliness that settles into my heart. I sob openly now behind the closed and locked door. I don't even bother with salt or sigils. Maybe, if they come and get me, I can see Mary again.

The tension and pulsing cries wrack my body until I can't even stay upright. I fall onto the floor and curl inside myself, still holding that bottle. I can't even bring myself to consider the boys. All I see is beautiful, bright blue eyes framed by glowing blonde hair. Her face, her breath, her voice, her smell… now, all those things are lost to me with time. But, I try to reclaim them. I try to remember each of those things in turn. All the wonderful memories we made together. Every time she turned her smile my way, every time she laughed in my ear. All I can remember with perfect clarity are the flames, the burning hair and fabric of her nightgown, the heat coming from her as she died soundlessly screaming above me.

I wake to the pounding on the door made worst by the echo inside my skull. I try to open my eyes enough to determine if it's day or night… or if this is even my room.

I uncurl myself from my place on the floor and crawl over to the now-quiet barrier between me and the outside world. I hear two voices speaking on the other side. I think I may recognize one of them, but I can't be sure.

"John! Open the door!"

Again with the pounding.

I growl and protest as I try to climb up the door frame with one hand while my other hand still grips the near empty bottle of amber-colored liquid. I lean heavily on the door, pressing the side of my face on the paneled wood as I stand, but I'm not sure I can let go long enough to find the knob. My forehead is resting on the cheap door, which turns out is very unwise for someone with as bad a hangover as I have. Particularly when someone is determined to pound the damn thing down to get in while you do it. I manage to turn the handle granting access to the room. I don't even care who it is at this point. If they have a gun, I hope they plan on shooting me. Maybe, it will dull the throbbing pain behind my eyes and the rolling of my stomach.

"Dear lord! It smells like a sewage tank exploded in here."

I look up to a tall thin man in a black suit. He is covering his nose and mouth with a bit of fabric and he is approaching me.

"I don't need last rites, preacher- Just another bottle of hair of the dog." I hear my voice nearly whisper. I raise the bottle in my hand as a visual to give him an idea of the brand for which he should look. I tumble backward onto the bed and then, I can only see the damn brown water stain on the ceiling tiles I've been looking at for weeks.

"John. I thought you were coming back to see the boys." The disapproval in Jim's voice is palpable. I don't need it. I don't want it.

I feel the sting again. The numb isn't gone yet, but it's waning. I sob loudly. I don't even care about my dignity. What dignity?

Jim misunderstands the source of my grief. He tries to tell me that the boys are still anxious to see me and that they're safe and waiting for me. I can't tell him that I don't care about that.

I hear the other man moving around my room. He's all business and if he plans on robbing me, I hope he has the decency to put me out of my misery before he leaves. He is packing my stuff into the duffle. He's a hunter, I can tell by his movements and the way he looks. I know him, too. The name eludes me at the moment.

"Leave me alone, preacher."

Jim sits on the edge of my bed. I close my eyes tight. I don't want to see any sympathy, pity, or understanding. I only want to see my wife. I'll never see her again.

"Dean told me to come looking for you." Jim begins. He touches my shoulder and I try to pull away. My body doesn't follow my instructions. That burning in my chest is back. I want it to go away. I want to numb it so it never returns. Jim continues unaware or unconcerned with what I want. "He tried calling for a few days. You weren't picking up. He says he knew you would do something stupid and we needed to find you." He wasn't wrong. "It was all we could do to keep him from running off on his own to come looking for you. Luckily, Bobby here was in the area and agreed to help." Jim's voice has a calm and even tone he uses with me and frightened children.

An image of Dean the last time I saw him came unbidden into my mind. The four-year-old carrying his infant brother out of the house, the haunted green eyes staring at me from the rear-view mirror, the way he follows my movements with those eyes and takes in all the information kids his age shouldn't know, the way he concentrates when he sights down the barrel of a gun, the weight of his arm over my shoulders. Those are vivid and real memories, right down to the scents and sounds. They aren't memories fading like a photograph, aging along the edges and stale. They are vibrant and alive.

Like my boys.

I reach out my empty hand and feel for Jim. My hand encounters durable fabric and I grab at him. I pull myself forward and my grip circles his waist. He places his hand on my head as he soothes me. I cry into the black coat and all my pain transfers to the clutching of my hands and arms. Like a drowning man reaching out for the preserver, I clench the preacher hard to me to keep me from going under again. I cry harder than last night. All I want is the pain to go away, for Mary to be alive, to live that normal life before I knew about the supernatural.

I am completely unaware of how much time had passed. My voice is gone, my eyes burn and I can tell they are swollen and red, and the preacher's side is smeared with a large spot of moisture from tears and worse. I lift my aching head to move away and feel his hand slip down to the bed. I hiccough and my breath hitches every other inhalation. I try to calm myself. I don't do this. I don't fall apart and lose control. I especially don't do it in front of other hunters. I peer around the room. All my things are gone and I don't see any sign of Bobby. Pastor Jim must understand my confusion.

"Bobby packed your car. He took off an hour ago but said he'd swing by to tell Dean that we found you and you're okay. I'll drive you back."

I begin to shake my head and it feels full of wool. I can't face them. I can't see them. I haven't even thought about them in weeks.

"No arguments, John. You need them, they need you. You shouldn't be alone right now. You're coming back and you'll stay until after Thanksgiving."

I open my mouth and no sounds come out.

"I said no arguments, John."

I close my mouth again.

My stomach is rolling again. I sit in the passenger seat of the Impala with my head against the glass. We are about 20 minutes out of Blue Earth and I can still feel the pain in my head from hangover. I put the thermos of water to my lips again to take a deep pull. Jim wouldn't let me bring liquor. Right now, I could really use it to help with the nervous energy doing cartwheels inside me.

When we pull up in front of the house, I see two whirlwinds exit the front door. Sam barrels right toward me. Dean hesitates at the top of the steps to the porch. He is stern. I know he's worried and angry. Sam is around my waist. I try not to puke all over him. I am so tired; all I have to offer is a quick ruffle of the kid's hair. I close my eyes briefly and swallow the lump in my throat. The pain is back in my chest and I can't stop the welling of tears.

"Come on, Sam." Pastor Jim calls to the boy still clenching his body against mine. "Help me with your dad's stuff, okay."

Sam looks up to me with the so serious and questioning eyes. His grip around me loosens and he pulls away without tearing his eyes from me. It's as if he is afraid if he blinks I might not be there. He walks around to the back of the big, black car and takes a duffle from the preacher.

Dean hasn't moved. He's watching me again. He has that look like he's judging whether I'm worthy. He's been doing it since he was four. Why should he stop now? I'm not, kid. I know it. You know it. But, I'm all you got. I'm all _we_ got.

Lucky us.

I start the step by step advance to the house. Sam's high-pitched chatter goes non-stop. I grunt with the unattached tone of a ghost when he pauses and sounds like he expects a response. We reach the steps and I stop. I look into the face of my oldest. He has a damn good poker face, my Dean. There are no clues to what he's thinking. I can't tell. I tilt my head in apology. I can't commit to more than that right now. Apparently, he accepts my apology because his face opens up and the look of concern replaces the mask of indifference. He steps down from the porch and pulls my arm around his shoulders as he helps me up to the house.

Sam hurries up the stairs inside ahead of us. My room had already been set up, apparently. We get to the landing at the top and the boys lead me to a small room between two doors. Sam places my duffle near the bed and went to sit in a chair at the desk. There are curtains covering the window but a narrow beam of light streams through. Dean walks with me to the bed and we sit down, side by side. I can feel the surge of grief again. It threatens to escape from me and I look at my oldest.

He seems to know what's coming and he stands.

"Come on, Sammy." He whispers. He puts his hand on the younger boy's shoulder as he steers them out of the room, closing the door behind him. I lean down to bury my face in the sweet-smelling clean of the pillow. My tears flow unabated.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

November 2.

I lock myself in the room and refuse to come out even for meals. I hear the whispered conversations through the closed door and I know Sam is becoming impatient with my self-inflicted exile. He loudly questions why I came back at all if I'm just going seal myself away from them. I've been wondering that for days.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

"Do you believe in Hell, preacher?" I ask one day after the boys are safely off to school.

"Yes." His reply was simple and the force of the word was without doubt.

I sat there and stared at the garden window in the kitchen. Several herbs and flowering plants were growing there.

"Demons?"

"You know I do."

I considered the words. I considered what it meant. Of course, Jim believes in Heaven and Hell. He is a preacher, a man of God.

"What are you thinking about, John?"

I'm thinking about Mary. I'm thinking about the conversations between my boys that I hear at night through the wall between our rooms. They think I've gone mad. They think I'm lost. Dean does his best to calm his brother's worries about my mental state and Pastor Jim goes in every night and prays with my youngest. I can't reassure them. I think I might be going mad, too.

I don't answer right away.

"I think I'm in Hell."

Jim sighs a quiet huff of air around the coffee mug at his mouth. "This isn't Hell, John. The sad truth is that all hunters have their own brand of Hell they carry in their pocket. But this isn't it. You know there is good here and that you stop Hell from entering other families' lives by doing what you do. But, saying that this is Hell is a cop-out. You release responsibility for what damage you do to yourself by blaming it on hell. And while I believe in actual, literal demons as well… you can't blame demons for what you do to yourself. Nothing is possessing you, John. I did the tests myself. But, you need to stop reliving Mary's death every year, stop pushing your boys away from you, and blaming it on Hell and the demon that shattered your naïveté. Your boys lost Mary, too. They pray for you each and every night. They want their dad, John, and you're right here. You need to be HERE for them."

I sat still and quiet for a handful of moments before I turned to look at him again.

"I was unaware it was Sunday."

Jim smiles at that.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

I drive up to the front of the school. I sit in the Impala for a while before I notice other cars coming and parking alongside the car and around it- Minivans and station-wagons, sedans and compacts. The white sedan in front of the Impala has a bumper sticker that proclaims the child of the family belongs to 4-H. There are women sitting behind the wheels of all the cars. I feel out of place and nervous at this very domestic routine.

The bell sounds and I hear doors opening around me. A troop of children flows out of the doors and through the gates. The noise is deafening. I look for the boys, but they are hidden in the swarm of youngsters. I lean against the quarter panel of the Impala and cross my arms over my chest. I keep watching. Then, I see them.

Dean has a smile on his face. His arm is casually draped over his brother's shoulders and he gestures as he talks to Sam. Sam looks up at his brother as though Dean has every answer in the universe and the wisdom of big brother is without dispute. They are walking and talking and I watch as Dean makes a quick scan of the area. He behaves like a Hunter. His eyes flit across black paint and zero in on the car. His smile grows, if possible, more wide and his eyes search for the driver.

Our eyes meet.

I can feel the swelling in my heart at the look my son aims at me. He nudges his brother and nods his head in my direction. I look down to see if Sam can see me yet. His head swivels in my direction. With a shout he leaves his brother behind as he runs right up to the car. He slows before reaching his hand out to me. I grab his hand and pull him into me.

_I am so sorry, Sam._ I think to myself. I have been too long away from them. I hug my youngest and I feel like I don't want to let go. I want to protect him and shelter him. I _want_ to love him enough for me and for Mary, too. But, I know I haven't been. I look up as Dean approaches us. His eyes are speculative. I give him a tentative smile and he returns it without hesitation. I open the back door for Sam and Dean steps up to me. I close the door after Sam is in and I gesture to the front passenger for Dean. His eyes go wide and his smile grows into a sly smirk. I move around to enter the driver's as Dean gets in. I hear the argument brewing, but not in earnest. It's just the banter between brothers and Dean tells Sam that Big Brotherhood has its privileges.

Dean cranks the volume as I turn over the engine. I feel the first unforced smile in months pull at my lips.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

The house is quiet. The boys have done their homework. After much loud and pointless shouts and laughter, Jim and I manage to get them fed, bathed and in their beds. I sit in the living room with a bottle of some domestic micro-brew. I had forgotten how much energy the boys have and how much energy it takes to keep up with them.

Jim enters the room and sits. I know from the set of his shoulders, the tightness in his eyes… I'm in for a sermon. I take a drag of the beer and take a deep breath.

"I'm glad you're here, John. You reminded the kids you're here for them today."

"I hear a 'but', Jim."

He inhales through his nose as if girding himself to plow through a dangerous minefield. Maybe talking with me about certain subjects is just that. He's either going to bring up Mary and the events leading me here, or… the boys.

"John," a deep breath, "I've loved having the boys here. I would love to have them stay here... at least until the end of the school year." He pauses. It sounds like he wants to say more. He searches for the words to avoid an explosion.

"Jim, I…" I scrub my palm down my face. I look at him, really look at him. I try to figure out what he's saying between the lines. He wants the boys. That wasn't the 'but' I was hearing.

"Look," Jim continues, "I can keep them, clothe them, feed them, take them to soccer practice and choir practice, but…"

Ah. There it is. That 'but'.

"I know." I tell him. "I don't like being away from them any more than they like having me away. I just don't think it's safe for them to… see me like… that. I don't…" I look down and feel all the years catching up to me. "Jim, I remembered something today."

He looks at me like I changed the subject. I press on.

"I remembered that I'm not… human… without my kids. I forget why I fight this war. I get stuck inside this vendetta and wrapped up in all the memories of..." I can't even say her name. Not now. I just got myself pulled out of that. I can't go back into that hole.

He moves. It's a small movement, a shift, a distraction. He's a pastor and is used to hearing confessions of sinners. Maybe, that's why he's so easy to talk to. He's a hunter and a man of the cloth. I wonder how he does that.

"I need them. I didn't really know how much until you found me, brought me back… until today."

Jim nods.

"I know I'm a shit dad… I know I am. Dean is a better dad than I am and he's not even thirteen yet. But, I have to keep them safe, Jim. They are all I have left and I can't…"

The last was a strangled sob. I put my head in my hands. I feel the trickle of the tears on my arms, down my cheeks. The arm over my shoulders is too small to be Jim's. I hear the man rise and walk out of the room. I turn my head to gaze into the endless green. Why am I always finding myself being comforted by my boy? Isn't that my job? I'm supposed to be strong for you, not the other way around. I straighten my shoulders and wipe my eyes. I pull away from Dean slightly and I feel his arm drop to his side. He doesn't move, though.

We sit like this, side by side. I hide my eyes from him. I'm ashamed of what I've done to him, done to them… I can't believe I could have left them for so long. At the same time, I don't need him to see me so weak. I need him to know I can do this. I can keep them safe.

"I'm not stupid, Dad."

The statement takes me by surprise. I look at the near-man sitting next to me. He isn't looking at me but some spot in the middle distance.

I guess I should say something. I know he's not stupid. I can't figure out what prompted the statement. The confusion must show, because when he looks at me he laughs.

"I know why you stay away from us. I know... especially at this time of year… it's hard." He looks down again. "You're not a shit dad."

I can feel it. That tightness in my chest is back. I shake my head.

"You just can't take off and not answer the phone. I need to know you're okay. When you're gone, it makes it easier for me to do my job if I know you're okay."

I have to laugh. His job. I nod and look at him. He knows I mean it.

"So…" I smirk as I look toward him. "Choir practice?"

His laughter is still light and high. His voice will change soon. His body is already displaying the changes from smooth childhood into the hard angles of manhood. His face is beginning to sprout hair under the rose tint of a blush and I can tell that if I don't go to hear him sing soon, I will have missed something important. The last throes of childhood will have gone past unremarked and uncelebrated. I decide that I will this weekend. We will stay for the next week, but after that, I'm taking them with me.

I still and feel the smile slip from my face. Dean sees it, too, and he becomes sober. I think he must misunderstand what I am thinking. I can see it in his eyes. I shake my head and grip his narrow shoulders in my hands, turning him to face me.

"When we leave here, I need you to know something, Dean." I try not to squeeze too hard despite the impulse to dig my fingers in to let him know, through that contact, all my intentions. "I need you to know that sometimes, I'll be a bastard and I might not be the dad you want or need. But, Dean, that's when I'll need you the most. I'll need you to really watch after Sam." Dean is nodding. He didn't miss the implications of what I said. His eyes are shining and eager. He knows I'm bringing them with me.

"I always do, Dad."

"I know but…" I lean my head against his chest, never taking my hands from his shoulders. I put so much on his shoulders already. "If we are gonna be together, Dean… I need to know…"

I don't complete the thought. He already knows. I can feel it. His excitement and eagerness is electricity flowing through the circuit between us.

He laughs and it's nearly manic. "Sam's gonna pitch a fit."

I feel the mania, too. It fills me up with the wanderlust and the urge to find a hunt. Dean and I share a few more moments of just being father and son. I feel weary all of a sudden and see that his eyelids are drooping despite his best efforts to remain awake.

"Bed." I tell him. He nods with his bleary eyes and walks like a drunkard to his room. I can't help the light feeling inside of me.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

Sam did pitch a fit as Dean had predicted. He was petulant and sullen for the remainder of the week, but he managed to forget how angry he was at me when I show up to the soccer match on Saturday after Thanksgiving. I can't remember how long it had been since the last time I felt so free and happy. I watch as he dribbles the black and white ball down the field. I don't know the rules of the game, but I can tell it's a good thing when he passes several other children on the field kicking the ball into the net. There's a "red card" pulled on his teammate and everyone protests. I do too, but I can't tell you why. I cheer my youngest alongside Dean and Pastor Jim. I feel like a dad. I feel like some ordinary man on the sideline and as I look around me, I cannot see anyone who can single me out from the crowd of ordinary dads. And when the boys win the match and Sam lifts the small trophy, I raise my voice in adulation along with all the other dads. It feels so good.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

Sunday is the last day we spend with Pastor Jim. Sam and I climb into the Impala to make our way to the church. This really isn't my "thing", but Jim and Dean had left the house earlier and I told them we would go. Besides, Dean would be singing. I just have to see it to believe it.

I had intended for us to sit near the back of the sanctuary, but Sam would have none of that. He grabs my hand and drags me near the front right side. He sits up and hands me a hymnal. I look at a program of the service. Many of the call/response phrases are printed and when they will occur during the service. I feel apprehensive and completely out of my element. Sam seems right at home, eager hazel eyes focused on the people filing into the pews. He whispers a running commentary about the citizens of Blue Earth he points out to me, regaling me with their biographies.

The organist plays an introduction and I watch Jim appear from a side door to the altar. Then, the music changed and was accompanied by true, pure voices of over a dozen children who are filing into the risers behind Jim. Jim finds my eyes and smiles. There is Dean in the green choir robes trimmed in yellow gold.

My eyes never leave my son during the entire musical presentation. He smiles when he looks to me while he sings. At one point in the singing, he and two other boys step forward and sing a cappella.

In years to come, when I think about my sons as boys, these are the memories I will hold and treasure.

After the service, I stand with Dean and Sam in the rectory as ladies approach me to tell me how beautifully Dean had sung, reiterated Jim's previous statement that he sang with an angelic voice. He beamed at the attention of the young girls that approach him. He went off several times with one young lady or another, returning with a smirk and a twinkle in his eyes that was anything but angelic.

***KTS***KTS***KTS***

I say my farewells to Jim outside his house. I thank him for all he has done for us. He asked if I could come back around Christmas so Dean can once again wow his parishioners. I laugh and promise we'll try.

I slide into the driver's seat and start the engine. The Impala roars to life and the boys wave at the preacher from their seats.

We didn't make it back to Blue Earth that Christmas or the next. Dean's voice ended up changing when he turned thirteen in January. I told Sam about the family business and began training him to save people by hunting things. It was the only way to keep them safe. They had to learn what to do and how to do it.

I still leave them occasionally in order to hunt things. But, they are always still with me. I don't leave them because I need them. It's selfish, I know. That fall in Blue Earth was the most human I ever felt since Mary… my boys keep me from falling into the pit of being a monster.

And from time to time, I dream of watching Sam play soccer and listen to Dean sing "Glory, Glory" and "Amazing Grace".


	6. Two Rules

Life is hard for hunters.

Friends are few and far between. Having any lasting relationships is dangerous- dangerous for the lovers or friends; dangerous for the hunters.

Family… family is a liability. Except, there's no one. There's no one else with whom I can leave my only connection to Mary. The boys are the only family I have left. They're with me because there is just…no one. No one but me. They know… like I know… life is hard.

I guess I'm luckier than most. Most hunters live solitary lives and trust no one. It's a lesson I learned when the boys were younger, but I don't have the luxury to live solo. I can't afford to always leave them alone and I can't always be there. I have a job to do and if anything happened to them… So, yeah… family is a liability.

I've met a few people in "the Life" during the past decade. Dean's always known. Sam is figuring things out. Sometimes, I can leave them in the motel with Dean in charge. Sometimes, well… Sometimes, it's too dangerous…

I've met some hunters in whose care I wouldn't even leave my car… but, there have been a few… a very few… with whom I can leave the boys and know that the demons, vampires, shifters… all the things that go bump in the night… they won't get my kids. Jim Murphy, Caleb, Bobby…

There have been those I've trusted, but have found out the hard way how wrong I was. When I leave the kids in the motel, I worry. I call Dean at least twice to check on them, but I can't get the job done with so much to distract me. When I leave them with Jim, I hurry back to get them. Jim has a larger flock besides my two kids. I trust him… I just need to make sure. When I leave them with Bobby, I used to call twice a day. I used to worry. I used to hurry back.

But, life is hard.

And hunters' kids have it harder than most.

Bobby genuinely cares about them. He's not their dad… that's me. But, sometimes… sometimes, I'm a liability to them. Sometimes, they're a liability to me. That's how it is for the families of hunters. And I'm just glad they have Bobby when they can't have me.

So, here I am…

Dean keeps trying to dunk his brother's head under the water. There's a smile on his face. Sam's too. They're splashing and playing in the water with Bobby laughing and calling them names. They look…

They look like a family.

But, family is a liability. And the boys will be hunters. I just can't bring myself to come out from where I watch them in the shadows. I know that when I do, they won't look like a family anymore. They won't look like little boys playing in a pool. They won't look like little boys at all. They'll look like young hunters. I want them to be little boys… just a little longer. Because, when they have to come back to real life… it won't look like this.

I smile and forget for a moment… Just for a moment.

I watch Bobby call them out of the water. Dean dunks Sam one last time before splashing to the steps out of the pool. Sam swims to follow with a beaming grin. I step back further into the deeper shadows. If they see me the illusion will be shattered. They'll have to be hunters. And life is hard for hunters, it's not public pools with surrogate uncles, splashing and pushing and laughing and playing.

I suppress the surge of jealousy.

I want it to be me. I want to go to the pool and neighborhood barbecues with my sons—to see them smile at me and laugh and be kids. But, I'm a hunter. They are a hunter's sons.

Bobby tells me that they're kids. He fights with me when I call to check in. I expect him to train the boys when they are with him. If he didn't threaten me with buckshot in my ass every time I remind him of what I expect, I might actually press the issue—emerge from the shadows and wipe the smiles from all of their faces. But, life is hard enough. And this life claimed their childhood enough as it is.

I'll go when I see the truck leave the lot. I'll move down the street to where I parked the car and I'll call Bobby to let him know I found another hunt. He'll pretend to be put out. He'll call me names and bluster, but I know him. A hunter's life is hard and having a family is a liability. Bobby knows this as well as any of us. But, Bobby wants them to remember why we live it when they can no longer pretend to be boys. He's told me that I wouldn't be here doing this job if I hadn't been a regular Joe before Mary… before that night.

He and I agree on one thing. "The Life" is hard… only gets harder. They need a reason to keep working the job… to keep people safe. I don't need a reason… I can't do anything else now.

Between jobs, I take work at a garage or as a handyman. The kids get a little stability and a taste of normal. But, they're not normal boys… We're not a normal family… our lives aren't normal. We have a hard job to do. We live a hard life. We're hunters and life is hard for hunters.

I come out of the shadows to watch red tail-lights wink out down the street.

I have a job that will take me a week or so and I can leave them a little longer to pretend they're an actual family. I'll tell Bobby to work with Dean. He needs training with a sniper rifle. Sam needs work on Latin and Greek. He complains that lore books are always in Latin or Greek. He doesn't ask me any more why he should learn the lore. I think Dean is telling him. Friends are few and far-between for hunters. I'm glad the boys have each other. Dean is the best friend Sam could ask for; even if he wants friends outside family, Sam will realize he can always count on his brother.

The Impala is big and black and sleek in the noon sun. Dean needs a car… I've been meaning to get something that can handle some of the wet, muddy roads and cross through rising stream beds… a truck, maybe. Dean can have the car. He's always wanted it.

As the boys grow older, as I find out more and more about the demon… I find I can move better when the boys take care of themselves or when they stay with Jim or Bobby. I'm beginning to live more of a solitary life. Most hunters live solitary lives. I get why.

Maybe, I could leave Sam here with Bobby. Dean can hunt with me until he's old enough to go solo… I could give him the Impala, then.

I rub my hands across her dashboard.

Dean will want to come. I can put off living and working alone if he comes with me… comes to back me up. I can count on him. He's dependable. Always has been. I don't have to trust another hunter. But… family is a liability. I can't risk losing Dean the way I've lost partners in the past. He has to learn sometime, and I'd rather he be with me than another hunter. If I leave him here, Bobby will have him believing he's a normal kid who can do normal things… like swim at the public pool.

I turn the ignition and hear the engine roar to life.

Life is hard for hunters…

I'm about to make it a little harder by separating them from each other.

I turn the car towards the outskirts of Sioux Falls… toward a ramshackle shell of a house… owned by a solitary hunter amidst a scrap metal graveyard…

Bobby will take care of Sam for the week. After that, I can leave Sam in the motel room by himself while I take Dean on hunts. Pretty soon, they'll have no one but each other. I'll live that solitary life… because I'm a liability to them. They're all I have left and I love them too much. That's why they're a liability to me. Things can use them to get to me. So, soon, they will live like hunters, too. They're not normal boys. I need to prepare them for those two facts of life:

Life is hard.

We're all we got.


End file.
